


Blue Flowers

by H3L



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Fluff, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 06:32:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/H3L/pseuds/H3L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Oneshot taking place in your AU universe (Valonqar-verse) but exploring what might have happened if Brienne had heard about Jaime’s proposal and accepted. What would their marriage have been like? Some slight underage as this is GRRM and marriages tended to happen fairly early by our standards.</p><p>You do not have to have read <em>Valonqar</em> to read this but it might help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you _Valyriansteel_ for all you do and for making me a better author...or at least making me look like a better author. Lol And a special thanks to _Snowfright_ for agreeing to beta swap with me! Thank you!!

On her wedding day she wore a crown of flowers, made from bluestars and brunneras, picked from between the steppingstones of the Faircastle crags to match her sapphire eyes. The crown had been expertly woven into her hair by Septa Donyse and Septa Roelle in the morning as she was fitted into her gown and slippers were delicately placed on her decidedly not delicate feet. Both women knew it would do little to improve the appearance of the girl, but neither one knew how little it mattered to Jaime what she looked like upon his homecoming. Still, he thought the crown rather suited her.  
-  
Marriage is both harder and easier than she is told it will be. She knows her husband well and although he can be irritating and prideful he is also honorable. He never lets an unkind word be spoken of her in his hearing, the Lords of the Westerlands learned that lesson early on when Jaime soundly beat a man for calling Brienne a “giantess,” and he always takes her opinion into consideration in matters of the castle and his banners. They are rarely at the Rock during their first few years of marriage. They travel to her home, and to see her brother, they visit the capital to see the rebuilding and to mourn his losses. Brienne’s favorite trips are the tourneys. He takes her to everyone he can manage and he always enters. 

Jaime is gifted like the Warrior himself when he wields a blade and _almost_ always wins the melee, if not also the joust. He wears her favor proudly, a blue handkerchief tied to his shoulder, and although there are always other maidens there, and some less than honorable ladies, he never strays far from her side. She is proud of him, as he is proud of himself, but she wishes she could fight as well. That she could compete. She is too young yet, but she resolves to enter secretly when she reaches five and ten…so long as she is not with child. As of yet it is an impossibility. 

True, they had a bedding ceremony at their wedding, which was both infuriating and embarrassing, but he did not take her maiden head that night. It was not because he did not want it, he made it very clear that he did, it was because she was not ready. Being a maid of three and ten, and flowered at the time, she was old enough. And he made sure she knew she certainly looked to him like woman enough to be bedded, yet she remained a maid. Her husband said he couldn’t bear to take his wife before she willed it. 

“I will go nowhere that I am not welcome,” he had bowed his head and promised, locks of golden hair tumbling forward over his green eyes. 

“You will not be allowed anywhere you’re not welcome.” He grinned at her and it almost masked the predatory glint of his eyes as he mounted the bed she was prone on. He stretched himself out beside her and dragged his fingers across her hot skin in tantalizing circles of molten gold. 

“Well then, my Lady, _allow me_.”

“Jaime,” she whispered over and over again in the dark of their new bedchamber as he licked across her neck and pressed his weight into her from above. “Jaime,” was all she could utter as his deft fingers slipped between her legs, through her course thatch of blonde hair, to the tingling tightness there.  
-

“Ser Jaime,” she said and almost bowed to him before her septa pinched her arm and she dropped into an immediate, ill-formed, curtsy.

Her hair was longer than he remembered, though it had only been a year since he saw her last, and softer too he thought, when he reached out a hand to touch it gently. She immediately reddened and shied away from him but when he laughed at her she angrily cuffed him on the arm and gave a fierce smile when he winced. He couldn’t help but answer her in kind. 

“Where did you get your arm, wench? Have you been practicing with a war hammer? A mace?”

“Stop calling me that,” she growled and he smirked.

“Would you prefer sweetling? Dove? Tell me, what would you have me call you if not what I’ve always called you?” 

She narrowed her bright blue eyes at him and crossed her arms across her small chest. “You didn’t always call me that. My name is Brienne,” she said, widening her feet and uncrossing her arms, “Brienne of Tarth.”

Jaime held up his hands and showed her his palms in submission. “If you insist, Brienne of Tarth it is.” _Though not for long,_ he thought.

She was young, but old enough to be wedded and bedded, and Jaime had waited for her so long he’d grown bored with waiting. She could come to their marriage bed covered head to foot in dirt, insisting he call her Duncan the Tall, and it wouldn’t matter to him one jot. They’d been betrothed many years before he was actually informed of it. She’d come along with her brother to be fostered at Casterly Rock in his ninth year, just after his mother died. She’d been little more than a babe, only four years old, and her mother gone as well. She’d clung to her brother like moss to a rock, but with a little persistence Jaime had swayed her to him and ever since had never been made to let her go.  
-  
She knows her place among the household, she is Lady of the Rock and second only to her Lord Husband, Lord of the Rock and Warden of the West, Jaime Lannister. Still, she finds herself less inclined to the running of the household and more likely to be found training with her husband in the practice yard than anywhere else. 

“Wench, lift your elbow and don’t grimace before you lunge, it gives away the game,” he says to her as she recovers from a blow. 

“My name is Brienne.” She pitches her voice low and dangerous but he only laughs and winks at her as he falls back into stance.

“Yes, it is, Brienne of House Lannister. Now, Brienne my wench, being that I am the Lord of House Lannister, I bid you come.” He beckons his young wife with the tiniest flick of his wrist and she charges forward, sword out, to meet him.  
-  
Brienne was long of limb, tall, and very strong. The last time he’d seen her they had fought in the yard at Tarth, with tourney swords beneath the full moon on the eve of his departure from Casterly Rock. He had years of practice more than she, and numerous other advantages, yet he found the maid of Tarth to be a challenge to beat with a blade. Jaime was no slouch when it came to sword play, and it was no secret that he was renowned among the seven kingdoms for his skill. He was not modest but he was also not over-reaching when he called himself the best. In fact, before Robert’s Rebellion, he’d almost been offered a position in the King’s guard at the tender age of six and ten, because of his impeccable skill with steel. Thankfully his betrothal to Brienne of Tarth had put a halt to those plans. Instead he had stayed on at Crakehall and distinguished himself in the lists. 

When his father and sister were killed in the great burning of King’s Landing, and he was made Lord of the Rock, Jaime had lost his taste for playing at war and retreated to Tarth to lick his wounds and take comfort in his bride-to-be. He’d seen her briefly after he was knighted, he was five and ten and she only 9 years. She’d been small and brown from the sun that blazed down on Tarth and she’d loved him like a sister loves a brother. Both knew of the betrothal but neither knew what it had really meant. When he returned two years later, heartbroken, he found someone near a stranger. That had been hard too, although Selwyn tried desperately to make him feel welcome. Jaime had expected a reminder of his youth. He thought he would return to have his arms filled with the little girl he’d left behind who looked up to him and begged to ride on his shoulders. He found something different. She’d always been tall for her age but she seemed to have shot up like a stalk in the short years of his absence. She was nearly a foot taller than the island boys her own age and there was a sullen frown on the features that he had always known to be smiling. At one and ten she had become more fierce than sweet and more shy then he remembered. He’d been so disheartened by her reluctance to be around him that he’d almost returned to Casterly Rock but on the fourth day of his stay he met her at dawn in the practice yard and she’d challenged him. 

It was a memory that still made him smile. When they began he toyed with her, carefully, to avoid hurting her. Soon enough he saw his error. She was good. When she landed a blow to his groin with the hilt of her blunted blade he’d grunted and dubbed her _swordswench_. 

“What did you call me?”

“Swords _wench_ ,” he replied, emphasizing the wench with a snarl. He had sweat on his brow and a glint in his eye. That little girl with buck teeth and broad shoulders had hacked at him and tripped him up to the point of distraction. He had beaten her, of course, but it had not been as easy as he expected. In fact, it hadn’t been easy at all. In that moment, as they walked back to Evenfall hall, he was _proud_ of her.  
-  
“Sweetling,” he murmurs into her ear as he moves over her and she stiffens beneath him. It takes a moment but Jaime eases away from her and studies Brienne’s face in the dim lamp light. “What? Are you well?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Sweetling?”

“Yes, call me…what you’ve always called me.”

He smiles at her and she can see the white glint of his teeth as he does. Then, before she realizes what change she has caused in him, he is on her. They are at a tourney at Hornvale, not far from their home, where her brother squired, and she knows the revelers outside are too loud and distracted to wonder at the noises coming from their champion’s tent. It isn’t, by any means, dishonorable, but Brienne doesn’t think she could enjoy his lips on her neck and his hand fisted tightly in her hair if she thought they were being observed. 

“Wench, my wench,” he moans into her ear as he slips a hand over her breast and captures the bud he finds there between his fingers. She gasps and sighs and wraps her arms around his neck, holding him to her. The tent is large and the bed there is one she is familiar with and comfortable in, however up until this night they have never shared it as husband and wife are wont to do. He has kept his promise to leave her maidenhead untouched until she says otherwise and contented himself with her clumsy hands, though he tells her they do grow bolder and more accomplished with each turn of the moon. 

His hands are hot and needy seem much more accomplished than hers as he tugs at her smallclothes with frustration and abandon. She moves beneath him, impatiently rolling her hips up to him, her body is begging for a sensation she hardly knows and he moves with her like the waves of the Sunset Sea crashing against the bluffs of the Rock. He finally tears the fabric impatiently down her long legs and returns to divest her of the tunic he had bunched around her neck until she is exposed to him. She feels her skin grow impossibly hotter as he examines her and she thinks, even after two years of marriage, that he might leave her. That he might find her unlovable. 

In a flurry of activity he flings of his tunic of red cotton and thread of gold, discarding it somewhere in the vicinity of their wash basin, and hurriedly unlaces his breeches with one hand while he guides her own fingers between her legs. Brienne rarely gratifies herself, Jaime has always made sure she was well satisfied, but on occasion he has asked to watch her. On nights when he doesn’t think he could stop, were he to touch her himself, he asks that she complete the task. He leans over her, naked and god-like, and inserts his own fingers alongside hers.

Brienne hisses at the intrusion but he bends forward, his sweat covered brow pressed tightly against her cheek, and speaks, “You must be wide enough, ready, I don’t want to hurt you.” It is as if he commands her body as he commands his own sword arm, she feels her muscles ease and make room for him.  
-  
“Are you sure, Ser?” Jaime turned to look over the nervous girl beside him. She was no longer blushing, but pale, and he detected a tremor in her large, calloused hands. She wasn’t the smiling, blushing, bride of stories. She was terrified, unsure and uncertain. She knew she was ugly and she knew she was from a family of less consequence and she thought those things made her unlovable. He could see it plainly in her panicked eyes. She was wrong. 

“Are you, my Lady?” 

His simple question seemed to make her even more uncomfortable. She wrung her hands briefly before smoothing them out against the silk of her dress. “Yes. No. I don’t know.” Her head fell to her chest and she stared at the ground as she continued. “Tell me what to do. I’m not…I’m not a lady. I’m not pretty, I’m not rich, and my stitches are always crooked.”

Jaime almost laughed when she mentioned her stitches. “Do you think I’m marrying you to hem my breeches?” She looked up sharply and he couldn’t help but take her face in his strong hands. “If you are wondering, the answer is _no_.”  
-  
He takes her breath away from her as his left hand meets her waist. His right removes itself from her folds and it takes her fingers with it. Brienne relaxes into the mattress but he takes her hand and brings it to his lips, carefully licking each of her fingers with his pink tongue. His eyes never leave hers and she knows her mouth is parted and panting. Then he places her hand at his shoulder and inches forward, opening her legs wider as he moves, to fit himself snuggly between her thighs. When he enters her, Brienne clenches in dread as he meets a barrier. Jaime moans and grips her behind her knees, bending her legs and spreading them impossibly wider. He doesn’t move further though, remaining still.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he commands and Brienne snaps her eyes open in surprise. He is sweating and flushed, leaning over her. His eyes are black and rimmed with only the thinnest rings of green remaining. When he speaks again his words are softer. “Don’t be afraid.” 

He leans down to kiss her and as his tongue snakes into her mouth, tangling with her own, she relaxes and he slides into her fully. There is pain but it passes as his flesh slides roughly against hers, sending sparks of pleasure through her abdomen and down her legs all the way into her toes. Brienne arches into him as he pulls away only to be pressed down again in rapid succession as his body surges forward. 

“Wench,” he groans into her ear, “mine, my wench, _Brienne_.” She can’t speak to answer him, her mouth stuck open and her breath coming too quickly to make words. It is a battle as he pushes into her and pulls out, Brienne’s muscles trying to hold him harder, to pull him deeper. She feels her meager breasts smacking rhythmically up and down as he picks up speed and then, suddenly, she is crying out incoherently as pleasure courses through her almost painfully. It causes her hips to jerk erratically and her toes to curl against his lower back. Jaime bites into the freckled flesh of her shoulder, and when she digs her dirty, blunted fingernails into his neck she feels his member inside her swell against her walls before filling her with his seed. 

Afterward he collapses onto her, exhausted, in the same way as he does when they have a particularly good sparring session. When he kisses her his skin is slick and his lips are cool against the heat of her flesh.  
-  
Her mouth was hot and Jaime felt strange kissing her in the Stone Garden, knowing Galladon was not far off, standing with Jaime’s own brother. Yet he couldn’t let her go to the sept of Casterly Rock, her new home, and walk that path with her father to be given to him thinking she was a gift unwanted. The dress she wore was a maiden’s gown of pale cream silk, open at the top of the bodice to reveal the tantalizing suggestion of flushed cleavage. She looked entirely uncomfortable in it, and Jaime could tell she hated it. He had to admit that the color did little for her but to emphasize the freckles that chased down her neck to scatter over the tops of her breasts and continue onto places he could only imagine. It made him almost nervous to think of her that way, though he knew he was supposed to. He did rather like her freckles however, they had always been a part of her and he was intimately familiar with each one. 

She’d been back to Tarth recently, he could tell by the color on her cheeks and shoulders. Tarth was warmer and the sun seemed to shine brighter there than it did in the Westerlands. Most likely she had gone to meet with her father and return with his envoy and her brother to Casterly Rock for the celebration. Galladon too, whom he’d seen earlier, had the tell-tale hint of color that suggested some time spent at his ancestral home. When Jaime had arrived that morning the first thing he saw was the heir to Tarth, tall as a giant, waiting at the postern gate for the assembly from Crakehall. The massive youth was all freckles and sandy blonde hair like his sister, but his green eyes held a mischievous sparkle that was much more like his cousin Jaime then Brienne. The younger boy grinned wolfishly at his sister’s betrothed and clapped his back when he dismounted that morning. Beside his old friend stood Addam Marbrand, looking somewhat fuller than Jaime remembered, and his own younger brother, Tyrion, impatiently pushing his long dark hair from his mismatched eyes. 

“You’re taller,” said Tyrion with a half-hearted scowl. He clambered up onto one of the many barrels of mead that were scattered about waiting to me inventoried for the feast, and opened his arms. Jaime had smiled and stepped into them easily, making sure not to lift his brother at all. Tyrion hated that.

“You’re not,” he replied it his brother’s ear before he released him.

“Not likely to be any time soon, either.”

He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed them until they were at his side, clamoring for his attention. All three had stayed behind at the Rock when Jaime left for Crakehall. Galladon had been too young, Addam was from a slightly less auspicious house from Ashemark and would squire closer to home, and Tyrion was too young as well, though he would likely be too small for the rest of his life. As the remainder of his travelling companions made their ways to baths and meals, Jaime let himself be led into Casterly Rock by his former companions. Tyrion he’d seen not more than a year earlier, Galladon and Addam had been absent from his life much longer. He seemed to pass them, like ships in the night, whenever their paths neared crossing. Addam was sent squiring for Ser Andros Brax of Hornvale and had plenty of amusing stories about Hornvale’s old Lord, and Galladon wasted no time in amusing Jaime with stories of his adventures squiring for Ser Willem Swann of Stonehelm. Both of them had rather recently acquired knighthood and were proud of their achievements. Ser Galladon of Tarth was six and ten, not so young as Jaime had been but still it was a feat. Addam had been knighted not long before after slaying bandits ravaging the Westerlands around Hornvale. It had been a valiant service and his award was just. Soon enough though, all three of them were demanding to hear the story of Jaime’s knighthood. Tyrion had already heard the story, many times, but Jaime regaled them anyway. 

He told them about the Battle with the Kingswood Brotherhood, rescuing the maid Jeyne Swann and her Septa, and finally how he’d been knighted by Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning himself. When he finished his tale, Galladon had immediately asked if Jeyne Swann was as pretty as everyone said. Jaime scanned the yard again and was greeted with a glimpse of blond hair ducking behind a barley barrel only a few yards off. 

“She was a healthy girl, I didn’t notice that she was particularly pretty,” he answered carefully. 

Galladon slumped a little and frowned at Jaime’s inconclusive answer. In truth, she was a pretty girl, willowy and small with chestnut-coloured hair and sparkling eyes that resembled honey. Still, it hadn’t mattered to him what she looked like or how she’d batted her eyelashes at him. To Jaime she was just a stupid girl who had wanted to go home. Brienne would never have cried and begged and hid behind her septa’s skirts. She would have stood and fought alongside him. In fact, he thought as he observed her crouched in the dirt, mussing her hair and dirtying her dress while she spied, she would never have allowed herself to be taken in the first place.  
-  
The King stands in the Gallery, his lady wife Lysa Tully by his side. There are others there as well, Ned Stark and his wife, the King’s goodsister, along with their five children. Both of King Robert’s brothers are there as well, and all four of his children. King Robert is grinning down at her and she knows without looking that Jaime is sulking at her side.

“Your helmet, Ser Knight! I want to see who had bested the sword of Jaime Lannister!” Brienne takes off her helmet slowly, the eyes of the king and his wife, of the handsome Lord of Storm’s End and of the stern Lord of Dragonstone, all on her as she lets it fall to her side. No one speaks for a moment and she hears Jaime gasp at her when he turns to see who has beaten him. Then King Robert laughs, loud and long. Brienne feels her skin flush and she is afraid tears will soon prick at her eyes but then the King is clapping. Everyone is clapping. _Who are they cheering for?_ She thinks before she realizes it’s her. “You’re a bloody woman! A big, bloody woman, I’ll give you that. Well done, Lady Lannister, well done. Had a bit of unfair advantage did you?” He calls jovially, with a questioning nod to her husband at her side, and everyone cheers again. Brienne tries not to smile but she her mouth is widening as the king continues. “No matter. Our champion,” he booms, “is the Lady of House Lannister!” 

She chances a glance at Jaime and he is no longer sulking at his loss but smiling at her victory. A squire interrupts them when he thrusts a wreath of flowers into her hands. Brienne is startled when Robert resumes his laughing. The King’s younger brother and Lord of Storm’s End, Renly Baratheon, takes up where his brother left off. “Time to name your Queen of Love and Beauty!” He shouts down to her, leaning gaily over the railing and smiling kindly at her. 

“Might I suggest Loras Tyrell?” Jaime whispers to her and Brienne knows she is smiling in earnest now. “He is rather prettier than most of the ladies here.” 

“Your grace,” she starts but is forced to begin again when the crowd cheers for her to speak up. “Your grace,” she shouts, “if I may I would name my Lord Husband, Jaime Lannister.”

Jaime is back to sulking when she fits the crown onto his golden head but he winks at her to show that he isn’t truly mad. King Robert is laughing so hard by now that he can hardly stand and his wife sits back down, smiling conspiratorially with her sister. Loras Tyrell, who is standing a few feet behind her as winner of the archery competition, calls a compliment to the _Lady_ Jaime Lannister and her husband shoots him a withering glare from beneath his crown of flowers. There are some yellow roses in the crown, as well as silver cups, but Brienne’s eye is drawn to the bluestars and brunneras littered throughout the garland. When she brings her hands down to his face from the crown on his head he smiles back at her and presses a deep kiss to her mouth. The crowd cheers and Brienne allows him to tilt her back slightly, letting the crown of blue flowers on his head tumble into the dirt.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a bit of a new format for me so I hope you guys liked it. I would appreciate feedback on it's readability if you've got the time! Thanks!


End file.
